𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 ~ | 𝘔𝘢𝘹 𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯

In The End We Burn

~'~

When I say it was the best night of my life, I mean every word. Maybe I don't have a lot to compare it to, but even so, it felt perfect. I had never experienced that kind of peace, that kind of stillness. Being with him felt like the world had finally stopped spinning too fast.

And of course, it all went to hell by morning.

What did you expect? A happy ending?

Grow up.

I woke up with a lazy, contented smile on my face, the kind that comes from the kind of sleep you don't want to leave. Stretching my arms, I felt the thick covers cocooning me. For a moment, it felt like heaven. But something was wrong, something was missing.

I blinked open my eyes, frowning at the cold feeling of absence of his arms around me. I thought maybe I must have rolled away from him during the night, but when I rolled over to see him...

I was alone.

I sat up, the sheets pooling around me as the chill of the room seeped in. The space beside me was cold, untouched, empty in more ways than one.

"Max?" My voice cracked with the first flutter of panic. I waited, straining to hear any sound of him in the apartment.

Silence.

"Max," I called again, louder this time. A sliver of hope forced my legs to move, carrying me into the living room. It was empty too. My pulse quickened.

His things were gone.

Suitcase. Bag. Jacket. Even the little things, his book, the phone charger he never remembered to pack until the last minute.

"Max!" I tried one last time, desperation bleeding into my voice. Deep down, I knew he wouldn't answer, but I couldn't stop myself.

Nothing.

My hands found their way to my hair, clutching tightly enough to sting. Tears brimmed, hot and threatening to spill, as the realization crept in. He was gone. No note. No explanation. Just... gone.

How could he do this? Last night, everything he said, everything he did, was that just for show? Did it mean nothing to him? Did I mean nothing to him?

The questions swirled, tangling themselves in knots I couldn't unravel. My breathing hitched as I paced the room, trying, and failing, to piece together a narrative that didn't break my heart.

Maybe he had an early meeting. Maybe he didn't want to wake me. Maybe it was something urgent, so urgent he couldn't even text. But then there was his suitcase. Why take it? If it was just a meeting, why pack like he wasn't coming back?

My chest tightened.

Shut up. Maybe it was a meeting in another city. On a plane, even.

It could happen.

But no matter how hard I tried to bury them, the doubts clawed their way back, sharper this time. What if I'd misread everything? What if this, us, was just a game to him? What if my feelings, the ones I'd bared to him so completely, were nothing more than tools he used to toy with me?

The room felt smaller, suffocating. I sank onto the couch, knees pulled to my chest as I stared blankly at the floor.

"Max," I whispered, my voice barely audible. Saying his name one last time, as if it might somehow summon him back, only made the hurt worse.